


Fly Love

by cosmicconundrum



Series: Nationmorphs [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Animorphs - Freeform, Crossover, First Kiss, Fluff, Flying, Humor, It's really funny - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Rated for swearing, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Wingfic, england tries to slap america with his bird talons, morphing, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 06:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12359817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicconundrum/pseuds/cosmicconundrum
Summary: England gets an unexpected visitor to his apartment in London late one night, only to find out that it's actually America in bald eagle form, who asks him to go out flying together. England, who has been pining forever, cannot help but accept.





	Fly Love

**Author's Note:**

> I'm super, super proud of this fic, and I really hope you guys enjoy it as well. It's the second fic in the Nationmorphs series, but you don't really have to read the first one to understand this one. Or at least, you shouldn't need to if you already have an understanding of Animorphs.
> 
> The basic idea is that this fic takes place in canonverse, except all the nations have the ability to change into animals by morphing in order to fight aliens.
> 
> This fic was heavily inspired by and named after one of my favorite songs ever, and I highly recommend it as background music.
> 
> [Fly Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W38Tyk40S5I)

England looked up from his book when he heard a soft knocking coming from the window. He sighed. It was almost nine in the evening. Why would anyone be coming here, to his apartment, which was supposedly “dull” and “boring,” according to a certain nation? Especially when it was this late at night? For all England knew, a bat or something had probably flown into the window by accident. That had happened before; it wasn’t a particularly amusing story, especially for the poor lady who happened to be walking under the window at the time.

Alas, England had to check on the window to make sure that everything was alright. So he carefully folded the corner of the page he was on, put his book down, and maneuvered his way over to the window.

England tilted the windows back to their upright position, then swung them open. The cool night air embraced him, and instantly, he relaxed. He had had the window tilted open only _slightly_ earlier to air out the room, for fear of letting in too many insects.

England then remembered the knocking, and decided to investigate it. He leaned out of the window, and looked left, right, down, and even up. No sign of anything unusual. The street below was mostly empty, a tribute of being quite a distance away from the heart of London. It paid to be a personification; England had several apartments all over his country in several choice locations. Only the soft glow from the lights lined up along the street allowed for him to even be able to see the ground clearly. The buildings across the street were likely full of people as well, but at least they knew how to be decent neighbors and not make a racket this late in the evening. A few cars lined the sides of the cobblestone street.

The moon was out, barely a crescent hanging in the darkness.

Huh. No sign of anything.

England stepped back from the window and was prepared to close it when a voice screamed in his head.

<Watch out!>

Something flew directly at England, and before he knew it, he found that he had been knocked over by the unidentified flying object, and was sprawled across the floor on his back. Small, soft feathers drifted into the air and settled again on the floor.

The thing was standing on his chest. When England lifted his head, he discovered that it was none other than a bald eagle, all majestic white and brown feathers and sharp talons and everything.

“Of course,” he muttered, let his head fall back to the floor, and rolled his eyes.

<Don’t ‘of course’ me!>

“Why not?” England retorted, still too lazy and weighed down by the bird that was actually America in bird morph to get up.

<I thought you’d be happy to see me.>

England could hear the sly tone of America’s thought-speak voice. He chuckled to himself, let a tired but gentle smile grace his face, and stared at the ceiling.

<I guess it isn’t often that you get the chance to be tackled to the ground of your outer-London apartment by a bald eagle, is it?>

“Yes, precisely,” England said, then remembered that there was a bird standing on his chest and that the bird kind of had really sharp talons, and added, “Get off me, you dimwit.”

<Aw, come on! You’re really comfy, you know that?>

England lifted his head to glare at the bird. America responded with the best puppy-face look he could manage with a limited ability to make facial expressions.

“You’re forgetting that the bald eagle has some of the longest talons of any of our raptor forms,” England said.

<What? Oh, sorry.>

And with that, the weight from England’s chest was lifted with a great flapping of wings and sheets of paper flying everywhere.

England sat upright, felt his button-up shirt to make sure that it hadn’t been torn, decided he was fine, and got up. America was sitting obediently on England’s bedside drawer, regarding the blond nation with the emotionless stare of a typical bird of prey. England approached America and folded his arms across his chest. His attempts at appearing as stern and grumpy as possible always failed when the younger nation was around. While his cheer usually wasn’t that infectious, it did have a particular way of making others feel a bit better about themselves and their day, no matter how much those others wanted to scold America. Luckily, England had the advantage of not having to see America’s real pout this time around.

“So, why are you here?” England asked.

<A guy can’t even visit his friend without being questioned?> America asked, cocking his head.

“Don’t do that thing where you respond to my questions with more questions. We won’t get anywhere if you act that way.”

<Okay, fine. I came here to give you a report on our nationmorphers’ battle updates!>

England’s curiosity perked slightly at this. Ever since the nations had all been granted the morphing power courtesy of America, they had formed a cult of sorts, and battled the Yeerks in coordinated -- and sometimes uncoordinated -- missions. Apparently, America liked reporting on battles. It gave him a “better sense of duty,” or some other patriotic nonsense.

“Go ahead,” England said.

America shuffled on his feet a bit before continuing.

<Germany, the Italies, Hungary, Austria, and Prussia did an unofficial mission in Munich. They found and archived a new Yeerk pool bigger than you’ve ever seen before under the city. It was more of a spy mission, I guess, so they haven’t attacked it yet. Maybe we can all band together during the next world meeting to do an actual attack!>

England scoffed, but couldn’t help smiling a bit. _Oh, America_. He always got so excited over the idea of attacking evil aliens invading the world. In fact, when America first told them about the Yeerks and his morphing powers, it had seemed too fake to be true. Like something straight out of one of his science fiction movies. No one believed him at first. But then America turned into an eagle in the middle of the world meeting room, and everyone collectively freaked the hell out.

Yep, they've had some good times.

“Is that it?”

<Yeah.>

England held out his right arm the way one would when offering to escort another, which was just what England was planning on doing. He had experienced his fair share of falconry throughout his long history, and was more than properly experienced in handling birds of prey.

America hopped up onto England’s forearm.

<Are you going to throw me out again?> America wondered, cocking his head, again in that manner reminiscent of the pout.

“Yes,” England replied, and although he would never admit it, he did feel slightly bad about doing so.

Everyone always caused him hell over the Special Relationship. And while America was far too oblivious to even understand what was going on, England wasn’t. He sighed. Sometimes he wondered if it would be better if America learned to read the atmosphere. Maybe they could actually… get somewhere, in terms of communication, instead of having to rely on missed opportunities and late night interactions like the situation they were currently in.

In a few steps, England was standing in front of his open window, lowering his arm to the sill so that America could jump from one to the other more easily.

“Well, thank you for coming, even if I didn't really get to accomodate you and offer you tea like a proper person should,” England said.

<I guess I'm leaving, then.>

And England must have been really tired, because for a moment he thought he could almost hear disappointment in those words.

England looked away in the following tense moment of silence. He didn't want to have to have a staring contest with a bird of prey.

“I still don't understand why you didn't just call me to relay the news,” England said after a while.

<I don't know. I guess I wanted to take advantage of being in the city for once, instead of being forced to call you because you were six hours away.>

America thought-laughed at that. England had no idea how that was even possible.

<But I also wanted to fly,> America admitted. <I know we all agreed not to morph until it was necessary, but I really like being a bird and flying and having all that freedom, and, and, well, you know what I mean!>

“I do know what you mean,” England assured him.

America relaxed again, then looked really uncomfortable, shifting around on his feet and turning his head away from the other nation.

<I guess I also wanted to ask you something because I was thinking about it earlier today at the meeting and I was also kind of thinking about it as I flew here from the hotel but I just realized that it is a really stupid idea and I should probably leave now and stop rambling. Hahaha.>

England raised an eyebrow. “What did you want to ask me?”

<Oh, um, please don't judge me too hard or anything, but I wanted to ask if you'll go out flying with me.>

America shifted around again, and decided to turn around completely so that he didn't have to face what was probably the judging stare from England. Forget having the advantage in a staring contest by being in raptor morph. Nobody could win a staring contest with England. Or at least America couldn’t. Mere eye contact with those stunning green eyes was usually enough to give him a minor heart attack, and/or paralyze him completely.

Meanwhile, England was indeed staring at America, but in shock. _Go out flying? With America? Flying? Together? Alone?_

<I mean, you don't seem like you're busy or doing anything important, and it's really nice outside despite being dark, and it's not raining either, which I guess is good, and I'm just going to shut up now.>

England waved his hands around.

“No no! That's fine, I would love to go out flying. With you!” he added desperately.

England felt his face heat up just a little. America thanked Mother Nature birds didn't blush, because he would be redder than a tomato.

<Oh. Okay.>

Another tense moment of silence passed, during which America debated turning around to maybe give England some privacy as he changed, and England debated morphing somewhere else to give _himself_ some privacy. Then he decided that no, it didn’t matter, because he was shrinking, and the worst that could happen is that he would get trapped in his clothes after morphing. Oh well. He was too ecstatic and suspended in a state of disbelief to really care.

England closed his eyes and breathed out. In his mind, he held the image of a red kite. He imagined it: the forked tail feathers, the medium brown-bordering-on-rust feathering, the black and white wing ends and tips. Sure enough, he could feel himself begin to shrink. He opened his eyes and felt his lips and nose fuse together before lengthening and hardening into a beak. His eyesight rapidly improved, and every single small detail in the room popped out at him. Feathers began to form on his skin, first small, then gradually bigger and bigger. They covered his small and awkward half-transition body. Lastly, he felt his bones suddenly become hollow, and the lightweight feeling of airborne-ability, if he could describe it as that, fill him.

England stuck his little kite head out of the mound of cloth his clothes had become. He awkwardly shuffled out from the collar hole, and flapped his wings a few times in order to get onto the windowsill. There, America was already waiting for him. The two stared at each other for a long, long time, before both simultaneously looked away and blinked as raptors should.

<Sorry. I kind of zoned out there. I always get really mesmerized when I see other people morph, because it’s so weird!> America exclaimed.

England suspected that America had been staring for other reasons, but he violently ended that chain of thought before it had gotten anywhere.

<Well? What are you waiting for?> England asked, then flapped his wings, once, twice, and took off into the cool night sky.

It had been over a month since England last flew, and that had been another month after his actual first flight as a nation morpher. That had been right after America introduced all of the nations to his concept of alien fighting by turning into animals, and right after they all chose their separate animals to get DNA samples from. All chose birds of prey. England obviously had to choose the red kite. He had always admired it as he was growing up, and although a large portion of his people hated it in medieval times, it was also used for falconry, and was now protected by his laws because it was threatened.

Of course, England quickly put everything out of his mind except his revelation at being able to fly. Being able to fly was _awesome_ , to put it simply. America always rambled on about how awesome flying was, and it was nowhere near accurate enough to describe the wonders of actually flying. Flying as a bird was ten times better than flying in an airplane, in a spaceship, anything. Nothing could have been better. England would not have hesitated to say that flying as a bird was the epitome of his experiences.

England’s gleeful mind flashed back to a point in his life when he had only been a young child. He had looked at his fairy friends, at the wild birds of the forest, and envied their abilities. America certainly must have done the same.

<Wait for meeeee!> A loud thought-speak voice shattered England’s pristine thoughts of ancient times, and he risked turning his head slightly to the side to see where the other was at.

America was flapping around wildly, trying to catch up to England. Being diurnal birds of prey, it was probably a really stupid idea to go flying out at night, England mused. Eagles and other raptors relied on rising waves of heated air to gain altitude, not flapping. Still, America was doing a damned good job of using brute determination to gain on England’s headstart. Soon, the two were flying next to one another, despite the fact that America’s bald eagle morph was clearly larger and required more flapping to catch up.

<This is my tenth or so time flying,> England said in the silence, and added, <My first time was everyone’s first.>

<Good times…> America mused.

They continued their flight, soaring over empty streets lit by the dim light of streetlamps, over tall, thin apartments lined up one after the other, over small trees growing amongst the rest of the city.

<Hey England! Watch this,> America said, and suddenly folded his wings back a little and swooped downward, diving towards the earth like a missile.

<America!> England shrieked, panic beginning to fill his mind. Without even giving his vaguely constructed plan a second thought, he, too, folded his wings back and dived after the younger nation.

They were only about one hundred meters above the city, and the ground and buildings were rapidly becoming bigger in his field of vision. England struggled to fall faster, so that maybe he could catch America with his talons and slow his descent, anything! He could practically see the boy’s life flashing before his eyes. A more cynical part of his mind noted that it would be horribly tragic, ironic, even, if America got brutally injured because he couldn’t fly and crashed to the earth, but England did his best to ignore his own sarcastic inner voice, and do whatever he could to fall faster.

They were over the Thames now. England could see the dark water shimmering, only twenty meters below. Ahead of him, America suddenly opened his wings up again, flared up from his descent, and swooped so precariously low under the arch of a bridge England’s mind couldn’t quite catch up with the physics. His slowed reaction time almost caused him to crash into the stone bridge as well, but he pulled up at the last second and saved himself from certain doom.

He zoomed over the top and felt his tail feathers brush the ledge. _That was close_ , he thought, mind hazy.

<Wooooooooooo! Yeah!!!> America was hollering ahead of him, doing dives, swinging back up and around in what should have been a perfectly normal flight pattern, and generally making a giant fool of himself.

England felt a small prick of annoyance suddenly blossom into full out anger. He flapped his wings rapidly and intercepted America on his next attempted loop-de-loop by grabbing onto his talons with his own.

<You fucking idiot!> England cried, while America turned his head around in confusion.

Now they were both flapping around wildly in midair as they tried not to lose balance and fall. America was upside down.

<What?> America wondered, and England could hear that he was trying to pout.

<You could have gotten yourself killed!> England shrieked again, and tried to shake the larger bird in his grip for good measure.

<England, I was fine!> America said, and if he had been in human form, the pout would have been turned up to an all time high.

England resisted the urge to slap him, though he had no idea how he was going to be able to do that with bird feet.

<You were about to splat into a bridge!>

<No I wasn’t!>

<Yes you were!>

<Hey, can we not do this now? This isn’t a very good position to be in in terms of stable flying, and obviously I’m heavier than you are and you can’t carry me,> America pointed out.

England grumbled, but they both silently agreed to land somewhere first. Then England would be able to chew out the other more properly. He released his death-like grip on the other’s talons, and they righted themselves, glided towards the bridge they had almost met their deaths on earlier, and perched lightly on the stone ledge. When enough time had passed for them to catch their breaths, England whipped his little kite head around and tried to glare as best as he could at America.

<You fucking idiot!> England began again.

America turned away in guilt.

<I was only trying to do some cool tricks…> he mumbled.

<Birds of prey don’t fly in the same way as jets and aeroplanes, you gormless tosser,> England snapped, <So you should know that you can’t do loop-de-loops!>

<But I did a really cool dive!> America protested.

<At the expense of what could have been your life!> England yelled over him.

<But we can’t die!>

<Yes, as nations, but who knows how this morphing technology will affect our immortality or our actual represented nations?>

Silence hung in the air. While England tried to glare at America to portray just how truly annoyed he was, America still refused to look at England, and instead busied himself with studying the way the lights of the city reflected off the waves.

England finally gave up, and directed his mental sigh towards the younger nation.

<One of these days, you’re going to do something in the name of your “heroic awesomeness” and get yourself seriously injured, and when you do, I will laugh cruelly,> England muttered through thought-speak.

America turned to look at England, then shuffled over a few inches so that they were practically pressed against one another. England squawked in indignation.

<Oh, please! I really doubt you’ll laugh. More like you’ll be really worried and fuss over me like you just did,> America pointed out, and mentally laughed.

<Is there something wrong with worrying about you!?> England snapped.

<Not really, I guess? I just think it’s kind of funny.>

<That’s frankly very rude. Maybe I should stop caring about you.>

<I doubt that’s possible either,> America said, and seemed to smile.

Although it was way too dark for either of them to really see anything despite their enhanced vision, and the fact that they were birds, were covered in feathers, and couldn’t redden, America swore England was blushing.

<You’re so red!> He teased.

<I’m certainly glad you _just_ noticed that my morph is a _red_ kite,> England retorted with such sarcasm that America’s happy demeanor almost faltered.

Silence again. Luckily, it was slightly more relaxed this time, and definitely less “filled with tension,” as France would have said. England then wanted to slap himself for bringing up the thought.

<A-anyway,> he said, and turned around exactly one-hundred and eighty degrees so that he was now looking over the water instead of the rough stone pavement of the bridge, <We should get going. But promise me you won’t get yourself hurt.>

<Fine...> America said, and England just had to accept that.

England took off to the air, and almost missed the sudden lack of warmth by his side. England circled the bridge a few times and waited for America to join him. Then, the two of them continued flying back in the direction they had come from. This time, America risked doing a few dives and continued whooping as he did so, prompting England to mentally smile. The boy wouldn’t listen to him, even now. But he looked like he was having fun, and England, contrary to popular belief, did not always condemn fun activities because he was an old, unfun geezer.

<See? It’s alright to dive!> America said after pulling up from a particularly steep-looking descent.

 _Well,_ England thought, _he might as well try._

He made sure he was at least eighty or so meters above the ground, then tucked in his wings, and began to plummet to the earth. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed America swooping down after him, letting out shrill shrieks of laughter as he did so. As the ground approached, England opened up his wings again, and let the air carry him back into a smooth glide from the dive. He continued flapping to gain some more altitude, almost laughing as he did so. America wasn’t wrong. Diving was _fun._

<Whee!> America cried, utilizing the momentum from his dive to zoom past England and shoot up into the night sky.

The two of them continued like that, trying tricks that were much lamer to what they usually did in fighter planes, but having so much more fun doing so. Both often had close calls to crashing into streetlights or hanging wires. But England found himself gradually relaxing. He didn’t even bother scolding America after he nearly got his wing caught in a tree. Perhaps it was okay to risk some safety in favor of having some fun...

Pretty soon, they were already back in the neighborhood England’s apartment resided in. Both England and America were laughing as they gradually stopped with the dives and continued their gentle gliding towards the lone open window lit by a single dim lamp.

England halted his movement with a single great flap, and landed on the windowsill. He jumped down to the carpeted floor to make room for America. America landed on the sill, too, and stayed there.

<So,> Both started in unison, and stopped upon hearing each other.

<You go first,> England said.

<No, no, it’s fine!> America responded.

<Okay, then. I’m going to demorph. You should go ahead and demorph too,> England said, <You’ve been in that form for at least an hour by now, I expect. Better safe than sorry.>

<Ah. Alright.>

England shuffled over and America jumped off the windowsill and onto the floor.

Neither of them made a move to demorph. England’s befuddled mind suddenly remembered the limitations of the morphing ability, specifically the clothing issue. Since morphing was about changing bodily form, it did make sense that clothing was shed during morphing and wasn’t regained when changing back. The nations had all been been unfortunate enough to discover that during their first morphing experience at that world meeting after their first flight. It had been embarrassing, to say the least, but everyone had agreed without spoken words to never bring it up again for fear of their own humiliation. In other words, it was basically Mutually Assured Discomposure.

But now England was stuck in a particularly finicky situation, with _America_ , of all people. They were in England’s bedroom, and both now had to demorph. When they did, they would find themselves without clothes. Oh dear.

<Perhaps I’ll go to the bathroom,> England suggested.

<Wait!> America suddenly yelled, flapping his wings a little, <I forgot to tell you something. About the clothing thing…>

England turned away as embarrassing thoughts about potential scenarios began to flood his mind.

<I figured out how to demorph and still have clothing on!>

Now America had garnered his attention. England regarded him with a curious expression.

<How?>

<Well, it’s pretty hard. And you can’t do shoes or accessories like hats and stuff, or thick or loose clothes. You can, however, demorph and acquire a full set of spandex-made apparel!>

<Oh dear,> England accidentally thought aloud as his brain took the implications and _ran_ with them.

<Hey, it’s better than no clothing at all.>

<I suppose so.>

<Here, I’ll go first as a demonstration. You just picture turning back into a human, er, not that we’re actually humans, but whatever, but you also picture wearing spandex. I haven’t figured out how to customize the spandex you’re wearing yet, though. And I have no idea how this even works scientifically, but who even cares at this point?> America said, and he began demorphing.

England was transfixed as he watched America’s legs lengthen to awkwardly blunt human legs, his feathers melt together and fuse into skin, his beak disappear, and his wings shrink and thicken. True to his word, America had become fully human again, and sported a skintight spandex t-shirt as well as shorts. England pretended that it was his being a bird of prey that prevented him from not staring. In reality, he was not-so-subtly admiring America’s lanky but well-toned body. ‘ _Whoa’_ would have been insufficient in describing how he looked.

Then he noticed that America had regained his glasses. Weird. Well, England supposed that the glasses weren’t technically an accessory. They were literally an extension of America himself: Texas.

“Now you can try!” America declared, beaming like an excited little kid who had just discovered how to do a cool trick and was prepared to show it off to all his friends.

<Well, here I go,> England muttered, and pictured himself changing back, hopefully fully clothed.

Soon enough, he felt his wings condense into awkwardly long humanoid arms. Ugh. Every time one morphed, the process was slightly different. Most of the time, the half-morph stages were awkward and rather horrendous-looking. England had no doubt that if someone who had no idea what was going on walked in on him morphing, they would think he was some sort of mutated monster. He continued his demorphing, and felt his bones creaking and solidifying once more. He lost his balance, tottered around on his still-small, kite legs, and fell over. His torso flattened out, his legs thickened and lengthened, the talons wearing themselves away into toes, the scaly flesh and feathers giving way to pale skin.

England was dazed from falling over. He sat up with a groan upon realizing his human eyesight was vastly inferior to kite eyesight, and he was no longer as light and graceful as before. Then, he remembered the clothing issue, and panicked as he looked himself over several times before he was rightfully assured that yes, he was fully clothed, having managed to gain a long-sleeved nylon shirt along with athletic-looking trousers.

America laughed, and England glared up at him from his position on the ground.

“You looked so scared!” America said, and continued guffawing his face off as he doubled over and laughed.

“Well sorry for trying to make sure my dignity was still intact!” England yelled as he felt his face heat up.

England grabbed his book off the table and threw it at America for good measure. America deflected it effortlessly and kept laughing, the _idiot_. But after a while, England felt himself giving in, and couldn’t help but smile. America’s laugh was infectious.

Eventually, England got up, busied himself with dusting the imaginary dirt off his new clothes, and gathered up the clothing he had been wearing before he morphed.

“I would offer you the guest room for the night, but I believe you already have a hotel room,” England said after clearing his throat awkwardly.

“That’s fine. I wouldn’t want to bother you,” America added.

There was some silence before anyone spoke again.

“I should get going. It’s pretty late,” America said, nodding at the clock hanging on the wall. It was almost 10:30 pm.

America turned to the open window and the night, but made no move to remorph. England watched him in confusion. A small wisp of concern made its way into his heart, and he approached the taller nation with a single raised hand.

America jumped when he felt England’s touch on his shoulder.

“America, are you alright?” England asked.

There was no response for at least a solid minute, during which England wondered if America was pondering over something--

And then all of a sudden, in the span of a few mere milliseconds, a warm pair of lips were touching England’s own. England’s eyes widened at the action, at the proximity of America’s face, but before he could react or say anything, the warmth was gone, and America was backing away from him, his gaze on the floor and his cheeks tinted pink.

“A-Ame... I…” England was speechless. He opened his mouth in an attempt to form comprehensible words and failed at doing so.

England watched, still speechless, as America turned back into his bald eagle form. While none of the nations weren’t very good at morphing yet, England could see that America had progressed since his first morphing, as his mid-morph appearances went from clumsy to what could almost be described as graceful. Finally, he was done.

<Mind escorting me to the windowsill again?> America chirped happily, innocently, as if he hadn’t just _kissed_ England.

“No problem,” England said, and allowed for him to leap onto his forearm. He was surprised at his own calm tone. He still felt dizzy from the touching of lips, like he was floating. Had that even just happened? He added, “You’re so heavy.”

<It can’t be helped that I have one of the biggest and most powerful birds as my patron!>

Once again, America jumped off England’s arm onto the windowsill. After hesitating for a moment, he turned around, and looked at England again. The two stared at each other for a long time.

England wanted to say something. He didn’t know what it was, though. His mind simply kept playing and replaying the kiss, and he kept feeling the hands resting on his arms, the soft pair of lips pressed against his own… It was like there was a constant nagging thought at the back of his mind, prompting him that he needed to speak now or forever hold his peace. Perhaps it was brought upon him by the intimate situation he had just experienced. Or maybe it was leftover exhilarance from the flying. Either way, England’s attention was suddenly brought to the feelings he had been trying to suppress for centuries. _That_ was what he had been bothering him. And yet he couldn't bring himself to say something. He regarded America with masked affection. The silence continued.

 _Do something,_ he wanted to yell at himself. _End your suffering!_

<I should go,> America said, and turned away.

 _At least wish him goodnight or something, you pathetic imbecile!_ England helplessly watched without further words as America flapped his great brown wings and disappeared into the darkness of the night.

England stood in front of the window for a long time. A long, long time. His mind kept wandering back to the flight he had shared with America.

America, the wonderful dolt.

 _No._ England squeezed his eyes shut. He had to stop thinking about the boy before he turned into a blubbering, sentimental old fool.

England recovered, stepped back from the window, and carefully closed it, though he left it open a crack at the bottom to let in some air. He picked up the book lying open on the ground. He walked, barefoot, back to his chair, and sat down. Perhaps it was a little late to be reading, though. England put his book down on his lap. He found his fingers delicately resting on his lips, and he couldn’t stop his mind from thinking about the kiss.

Without realizing it, he had turned to look at the window again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment. I'm super thirsty for validation, and always will be.
> 
> Though I've already finished my time here writing more Hetalia fanfics and am only posting ones I've finished a long time ago (including this one), I might continue this series if enough people comment!
> 
> [](http://cosmicconundrum.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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